Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (50 page)

‘I did. He lies near our father as he wanted.’ Humayun was still adjusting to the genuine remorse he saw on his half-brother’s face when a thought struck him like a shaft of light suddenly illuminating a dark corner.

‘Hindal was the reason you surrendered when you did, rather than attacked me, wasn’t he? You might well have been able to kill me . . . ’

‘Yes. My guilt weighed on me. Everything felt so futile. I didn’t want to add another brother’s death to the burden of regret I already carry.’

Humayun felt tears prick his own eyes as he thought over Askari’s tale. Why had Hindal put himself at risk by riding south with only a few men into lands where he must have known he might encounter Kamran’s and Askari’s robber bands? Was it wishful thinking to think Hindal might have been on his way to Kabul to seek a reconciliation with him? Now he would never know . . .

For a few moments, both brothers were silent. Then Askari slowly crossed the room to the window and looked down into the courtyard. As he did so a half-smile crossed his face. ‘When we were children, Hindal and I used to stand here sometimes while the guards drilled in the courtyard. At other times we watched you and Kamran learning to fight with dagger and sword. We were very impressed – compared with us you seemed like grown men, warriors . . . We also watched our father ride out on his invasion of Hindustan from here. We’d never seen anything like it – so many thousands of soldiers, so many baggage wagons assembled in the meadows below the citadel, so much noise and excitement in the early morning light. Hindal was yelling with excitement though he didn’t really understand what was happening . . . Humayun . . . ’

‘What?’

‘Do you intend to execute me?’

‘Probably not.’

Askari closed his eyes for a moment. ‘In that case, help me find a way to make peace with myself and with the past . . . ’

‘How can I do that?’

‘Let me make the journey to Mecca, the
haj
. I want to atone for what happened to Hindal . . . ’

‘You want to make the pilgrimage to Mecca?’ Why not, Humayun thought after a moment or two. Making the
haj
would take Askari nearly a thousand miles from Kabul and from Kamran for months – years even. It was a better solution than incarceration or exile and might even provide Askari with the spiritual comfort he seemed in such need of. ‘Are you certain this is what you want?’

Askari nodded.

‘Then I will send an escort with you under the command of one of my best young officers, Mohamed Azruddin.’

‘To spy on me?’ Askari smiled bleakly.

‘No. To protect you – it is a long and hazardous journey by sea as well as by land . . . You may not believe me but I wish things could have been different between us. It is too late for that now – the past will always lie between us – but I pray that you find the peace you are seeking.’

O
ne clear early spring morning, five months after Askari’s departure on his long journey to Mecca, Humayun stood at the stone casement of his apartments in his fortress palace overlooking Kabul and gazed towards the mountains to the south. Although there had been no falls for some weeks, their jagged peaks were still snow-capped. The winds were chill and Humayun pulled his fur-lined cloak tightly round him. Few travellers made the journey up through the passes from Hindustan at this time of year but as Humayun watched, a small caravan appeared round the bend of the road that led south to Hindustan.

As the caravan got closer, Humayun saw that it comprised a few horsemen, no more than twenty – presumably merchants and their attendants – and about twenty or thirty pack camels. The riders were all well protected against the cold by heavy sheepskin jackets and most had scarves wound round their faces. The camels’ warm breath hung in the cold air as they plodded slowly up the hill under the burden of heavy panniers crammed with trade goods strapped on either side of their bodies, and headed towards one of the caravanserais that clustered just inside the thick walls of the city. After ten minutes, the caravan disappeared from view through the city gates into the caravanserai. Shortly afterwards, Humayun saw the smoke of extra fires lit to warm and feed the newcomers rise from within its walls.

Thinking no more about the caravan, Humayun looked down into the courtyard of the fort where Bairam Khan was teaching the ten-year-old Akbar some of the finer points of swordplay, watched by Akbar’s milk-brother Adham Khan. Akbar – a strong, muscular boy for his age – was clearly perfecting a technique for parrying Bairam Khan’s thrusts. Dodging beneath his tutor’s shield, he stabbed the protective quilted padding worn for such training sessions with his blunted sword.

As Akbar and Bairam Khan paused for breath, Humayun saw a man wearing a heavy sheepskin jacket, his face muffled beneath a red woollen cloth, enter the courtyard. He spoke urgently to one of the numerous guards, who pointed first to the officers’ quarters and then to Humayun’s own apartments. Ten minutes later, Humayun heard a knock on the door and Jauhar entered. ‘Majesty, one of Ahmed Khan’s spies has arrived, bringing news from the south. Ahmed Khan seeks your urgent permission to bring him into your presence to report in person. They are outside.’

‘Let them come in.’

Moments later, the familiar, straggle-bearded figure of Ahmed Khan appeared. Behind him was the man in the sheepskin Humayun had seen in the courtyard. He had removed his red scarf and headgear to reveal a stubbly beard and thinning dark hair, both of which made him appear older than he probably was. Ahmed Khan and the newcomer bowed low.

‘What is it, Ahmed Khan?’

‘This is Hussein Kalil – one of our best and most trusted scouts. He has just returned from the south around Khowst.’

‘He was with the caravan that I just saw arrive, wasn’t he? He clearly brings important news if he has come to us so soon after his arrival, without even stopping for a bowl of soup or to warm himself before the fires just lit in the caravanserai.’

‘It is important news – serious too. Your half-brother Kamran is raising yet another rebellion, collecting forces south of Khowst.’

Humayun grimaced. This was news he had half expected to hear but had hoped not to. After Hindal’s death and Askari’s departure on his pilgrimage, Kamran seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth despite the most extensive searches by Humayun’s troops. Humayun had tried to convince himself that Kamran had decided that he too should abandon the struggle and retreated to some remote area or sought exile, leaving Humayun freer than he had ever been since he had lost the throne of Hindustan to focus all his efforts and all his resources on recovering it.

However, in his heart Humayun had known all along that Kamran had always been the most resolute and determined of his fraternal foes and was unlikely ever to desist from his rebellions and liberate Humayun for the reconquest of Hindustan. There could be no peace, no truce between them. Kamran had never lost a deep-seated resentment fuelled by his belief that Humayun’s five-month advantage in age alone had led Babur to give him all. Perhaps he even felt that Babur had loved the unworthy Humayun more than himself – probably his mother Gulrukh had encouraged him in such a belief. Humayun could not be certain of any of this, but he knew he must act against his half-brother once more and this time put an end to his threat for ever. ‘Whereabouts exactly is Kamran?’

‘On the borders of our Afghan territories and those of the Baluchis,’ Ahmed Khan replied. ‘The high mountains, secluded valleys and remote caves provide good hiding places for all sorts of rebels and bandits and are almost impregnable to those who do not have local supporters. But may Hussein Kalil tell his own story?’

‘Of course.’

Hussein Kalil shuffled from foot to foot and, eyes on the ground, began slightly nervously, gaining in confidence as he went on.

‘Under Ahmed Khan’s orders I was travelling in the south, in the guise of an itinerant seller of medicine – I have some knowledge of the subject. I was nearing Khowst when I heard rumours that your half-brother had taken refuge in a hill fortress about fifty miles away. I determined to go there and set out along the steep, stony tracks, over the numerous passes and small, twisting, fast-flowing rivers. As I got nearer to my destination, I noticed how full the wayside resting places and the
chai khanas
– the tea houses – were. Nearly all their customers were travelling in the same direction as myself. Most were well armed and strongly built. It took little effort to deduce that they were on their way to join your brother’s force and indeed some were ready enough to tell me so. Nevertheless, I decided to see the fortress for myself and to confirm the presence of your brother Kamran and the number of his men before returning.’

‘What did you find when you got there?’

‘When I reached Kamran’s stronghold after a few days more, I discovered it was, in fact, a small fortified village at the head of a narrow valley, high in the hills. Its mud walls were tall and thick and around them was a cluster of felt tents, housing recruits such as those I’d seen along the way. Trusting in my disguise as a medicine seller I entered the iron-studded gates in the walls and made my way to the small market place. Stalls edged its sides, selling vegetables and the like, but in the centre a stout man – clearly an officer – was inspecting a line of potential recruits and their mounts, prodding the men in the walls of their stomachs to check their muscles, testing the sharpness of their weapons and examining the teeth and legs of their horses. Before he had got a third of the way down the line, your half-brother rode up on a tall ginger horse with some of his men and called the recruits to gather around him. As a brief flurry of snow fell, sprinkling everybody and everything with white, he addressed them.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Forgive me, Majesty. I am not sure I should repeat his harsh words, for they concerned you.’

‘Go on. The words will be his not yours, and I will hear them.’

‘They went something like this: “My half-brother, the emperor, is a weak, indecisive man, not worthy to rule. Despite his protestations he remains addicted to opium. It makes him sluggish and hesitant. He has had many opportunities to regain the throne of Hindustan but failed to grasp them. I – not he – have the true hunger for land and booty that inspired Babur, my father. Be loyal to me and I will bring you great reward.”’

Humayun tensed and clenched his fist. How typical of the devious Kamran to spice his lies with a grain of truth. Yes, he had sometimes again resorted to the solace of opium as relief from the aching disappointment of his failure to make progress in the recovery of Hindustan. But the cause of that failure was Kamran himself and his constant rebellions. Humayun controlled himself. ‘How did the men react?’

‘They cheered him and he beckoned to one of those accompanying him, who produced a large green leather purse. Your brother extracted some silver coins and gave five to each man, saying, “These are mere tokens of the rewards you will gain.” Eyes shining with greed, they roared out “Kamran Padishah! We will follow you to the death.”’

‘That will be a short journey. If they and Kamran persist in their rebellion they will surely die. But continue.’

‘I remained at the settlement for four days, talking to the recruits and spying on their preparations for war. One white-haired officer who was suffering badly from chilblains for which I prescribed a mustard patch that – I thank God – seemed to help him, told me that they were to begin their march on Kabul in a week. I waited no longer but retraced my steps. Ten days ago, for protection against bandits and lawless tribes, I joined the caravan that arrived today.’

‘You have done well, Hussein Kalil. Ahmed Khan, send scouts to check for signs of my brother’s approach.’

‘I have done so already, Majesty.’

Within half an hour, Humayun was surrounded by his military advisers in an inner room of the citadel warmed by a great log fire. Humayun spoke first, summarising what Hussein Kalil had reported and then went on, anger in his eyes and a steely determination in his voice, ‘I will brook no more of my half-brother’s disloyalty. Provided the scouts confirm his advance I propose to ride out to confront him before he nears Kabul, perhaps taking him unawares in the passes.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Bairam Khan, how many men can we muster quickly?’

‘Around four thousand, Majesty. It’s good that we’d already started recruiting among the tribes around Kabul for the probing campaign towards the Indus you are contemplating.’

‘Will the recruits remain loyal? Those tribes are fractious and rent by feuds.’

‘We believe so, Majesty. As you know, we gave them a bounty on recruitment and promised more after each victory.’

‘Good. We will march in five days.’

Four days later – preparations had taken less time than Humayun had originally thought – he rode on his black horse down the stone ramp of the citadel of Kabul to the parade ground on the plain below where his army of four thousand men had assembled, pennants flying in the stiff chill breeze. As Humayun took his place in the centre of the column, he reflected that although they were many fewer than the troops he had once deployed in Hindustan, they should be more than enough to defeat Kamran. Nearly all his men were mounted and while he had decided, for speed of movement, not to take cannon with him, many of his soldiers had six-foot-long muskets tied to their saddles. Others had bows and quivers full of arrows across their backs.

Ahmed Khan’s spies had confirmed that Kamran was indeed on the move and that by now he should be no more than ten days away from Kabul, advancing up the long defile through the Safed mountain range. Because the campaign would be short – they might expect to clash in battle in less than a week – Humayun had ordered the provisions and equipment they carried to be kept to a minimum. Most of it – like the felt tents to keep out the late frosts, the copper cooking pots and the sacks of rice – was loaded in wicker panniers strapped on the backs of camels.The rest was carried by the lines of pack horses and mules waiting, roped together and restive, at the rear of the column.